A Promise for the Living
by Lyon's Own
Summary: As death stalks his father, a son reflects, remembers & hopes there is strength enough in the one left behind to keep his promise. HPDM SLASH Character death Mpreg implied. COMPLETE
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: **Sigh…so not mine. The characters of the Harry Potter universe belong J. K. Rowling, Warner Brothers, Scholastic, Bloomsbury, and all and sundry licensed copyright holders. No money has been exchanged, no offence is meant by this work of fan fiction.

**A/N: **Ack! The plot bunnies are breeding! I'm trying to keep up and dragging you all along for the ride—though this will be a short one (ride that is, and story too). This story is H/D SLASH. MPREG implied. And it's OC POV. I've made some corrections—Thank you Lyonessheart! grin

**1.**

I could feel my sister's anger rising off her body in waves. She was about to unleash a fury the likes of which this house hadn't seen since we were very small.

"WHAT? HOW LONG HAVE YOU KEPT THIS FROM US? WHY DIDN'T YOU TELL US?"

Her temper slammed into all of us and rocked the Manor like a minor earthquake. I could hear the ancient crystal chandeliers in the ballroom below start to shake loose and figured now would be a good time to calm her before any serious lasting damage was done. Putting my own emotions aside, I reached for the still-place in my mind and focused on radiating composure, control and serenity. Her resistance was formidable but eventually the shaking subsided, dying down to occasional after-shock tremors. I broke contact with her mind and wiped the sweat from my brow.

"Claire—" I reached out to her, my hand steady though my voice was still shaky from the strain of cooling her ire.

"No!" She waved off my hand, stood and turned away.

Before another word could be spoken she'd stormed out of the room, off to the gardens would be my guess. Looking back at my parents I shook my head slowly. "You should've told us sooner. We would have come home, NEWTS and graduation be damned. She's right that we should have been here with you."

Father cast a cool look at me as Dad righted himself. Claire's performance had thrown him nearly a seat over into the couch's armrest. Father's eyes were steely, his lips a thinned hard line. Dad's temper is legendary, but despite what is commonly held, it is Draconis Potter-Malfoy who is the reigning tantrum champion in their marriage. Claire's wicked temper was definitely inherited from Father, though obviously, she lacks his control. I understood his anger though. Weakened by the curse as he was, Dad could've been seriously injured by Claire's show of temper. As it was, he was winded; my sister's outburst must've hit him like the Cruciatus. Father's arm stretched out around him protectively but Dad just smiled and waved him off.

"Mother hen."

"Prat," Father returned without heat.

They shared a look, gazing deep into each other's eyes and Dad brushed his fingers over Father's face smoothing his furrowed brow. "It's alright Dragon."

When he'd settled himself against Father's side he looked up at me, "Maybe we should have told you sooner Alex, but I couldn't. Understand, I needed time to adjust, come to grips with all of this…and it might be selfish, but I needed some time with just your Father." He squeezed his husband's hand and sighed; "Besides you needed this last year for fun and laughter and being carefree with your friends. You're adults now and have your own lives to plan and lead. I didn't want you dropping everything, losing all your hard work to come dote on a dying old man."

My eyes snapped open wide and the emotions I'd suppressed at their announcement raged to the surface. Claire was not the only one who'd inherited a temper. "Our own lives! Old man! What kind of crap is that? You're only 38 for Merlin's sake! And we would've come to support you, spend time with you because we love you. Bloody hell Dad! You're the ones who gave us life, showed us how to live it. How could you think you're not the most important thing in our lives! Do you honestly think us so shallow that we'd put our NEWTS ahead of you! You-you insufferable bastard—how could you do this to us!"

With some effort Dad pulled himself up and came to put his arms around me. My shoulders shook and I could feel the sobs lodged in my throat grow hard and painful, but they wouldn't come.

"Alex," Dad said softly, threading a hand through my hair, "let's be honest shall we? Are you angry because we didn't tell you, or angry because I am dying?" His hand fell away as he took a step back to look into my eyes, my father's deep and brooding eyes. "This isn't my choice you know," he said finally.

The dam burst then, I could no longer hold back the sobbing or my tears. Dad pulled my hands, urging me up into his arms. He rubbed my back and kissed my head as I clung to him. "I-I don't want you to leave us!" I held on for all I was worth, afraid if I let go he'd slip from my arms and my life.

When the tears slowed he led me to the large couch and set me next to Father, who draped his arm over my shoulders in a show of support. His touch was solid, steady and welcome, as it was just what I needed. I could feel his strength and hear his thoughts echoing in my head. _We'll get through this_. Looking over at him I felt like I was a little boy again, clamouring with Claire to sit on his lap and hear a story before bed. He didn't often recite or read for us, that was Dad's thing, but Father's lap was always a place we were welcome and he'd hold us—in stillness, strength and love, keeping the monsters away until we'd fall asleep. Now I wished I could be that small again. That my Father would hold me in safety until this nightmare passed.

Tbc…

**A/N: **So, what say you? Is this worth continuing? Want to read more? Review


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: **Not mine. No money exchanged. No offence or infringement intended. Doing this just for fun.

**A/N: **Same warnings as before. This chapter is dedicated to dairygirl whose encouragement has kept me writing.—Thank you.

**2.**

Dad stood watching us, leaning heavily on his cane. His husband and his surviving son sharing one of those quiet moments he was typically too energetic to still himself for. I curled into Father drawing my feet up underneath me in blatant violation of the rules of decorum. That Father made no comment was proof enough the world was shifting on its axis.

"Dad?" I reached out my hand again and he took it sitting on my opposite side.

"Hmm?"

"How long do we have?" I whispered.

Dad squeezed my hand and leaned back into the couch. "Not long enough," he sighed, tilting his head back. I caught sight of his glistening eyes anyway and felt my own start to burn.

He cleared his throat and sat upright. "Three, maybe four months. I-I'll try Alex, as hard as I can…" he swallowed thickly. "Ultimately, it's not about how much time we have. It's about how we spend it," he added softly.

I nodded and gave in to the tears pressing at the back of my eyes. Dad brushed them away as they fell. "I won't tell you not to be angry…Hell, I'm angry. But I want you and Claire to try your best to understand and accept this. We really have exhausted all our options. We've done everything we possibly could." Dad chuckled lightly, "I don't think there's a Wizarding hospital left in the Northern Hemisphere we haven't visited." He leaned over and whispered in my ear, "And your father's been ejected from nearly all of them for hexing or threatening to hex the healers. He's got a bit of a temper you know."

Despite myself I chuckled, then turned to kiss his cheek. Dad smiled sadly, "Now speaking of time. I don't have enough to waste any on sullen hurt so…ah—" He levered himself off the couch slowly, "I'm going to go find that daughter of mine."

Father and I looked up at him, ready to accompany him, but he waved us off. "Stay here. Claire and I need to talk." He rolled his head on his shoulders and made his way toward the stairs.

We watched him go and continued to sit in companionable silence. I thought about tapping into Father's thoughts but knew he would shut me out as none but the Headmaster could. I figured we'd both be content to sit there saying nothing for hours, but there was something I wanted—I needed to know.

"This is why you shut yourselves off isn't it? Why you kept me out?"

Father removed his arm from my shoulders and clasped his hands in front of him. "We…didn't want you to know before you were told. With…the treatments…Harry didn't think he could occlude well enough to keep you from picking up more than you should by accident." Father looked at me, "You tend to go deeper than people expect. So we cut off any link you had to us telepathically." He turned his gaze back to his hands, "I know it was hard suddenly, not having us there and I-I'm sorry we worried you. It was your Dad's decision to make and I felt…we thought…we didn't…"

Picking up where he trailed off I finished the thought, "You didn't wan t us knowing how much pain there was…for both of you."

His jaw twitched and he answered me with a curt nod. "I'm sorry," he breathed.

And I knew he wasn't just apologising for shutting down our link. This was my father—who loved us, protected us fiercely, who taught us about pride and honour and spoiled us rotten, though he'd deny it; my father who would give us the world if it was his to offer, and who could make everything right. But this he couldn't make this right. Despite all his wealth and knowledge, his skill and cunning, he couldn't heal Dad or give us more time.

I took his hands in mine, for the first time feeling like I needed to protect and comfort him. "It's okay Father. _It's not your fault_," I said firmly.

He nodded again, "I know. But knowing doesn't seem to make it better."

Father sat back and ran a hand through his hair and it occurred to me that this is how he talked with Uncle Blaise or Aunt Hermione. This was Draco, as he was with his friends, the adults he trusted. And in that moment I realised that I really had grown up. I was truly an adult now and Father was treating me as such. It was both a thrilling and frightening insight.

"He's in a lot of pain isn't he?" I asked finally. No matter how I wished it, I couldn't hide in my father's lap and wait for this to go away. I had to face _all_ of it.

Father's clenched jaw was the only answer I needed.

"I can feel a bit of it," I said. I'd felt it since they'd picked us up from King's Cross though I hadn't told Claire. I was feeling a bit guilty about that, and knew she was going to be rather angry with me later. From what I could feel I knew that Dad was putting a lot of energy into shielding me, muffling the traces I would pick up from him. "He's protecting me," I said at last, "He should stop, it's too draining."

Father sighed, "He won't…we've discussed it. Since you're home and we're in such close proximity you can't help but feel him and he doesn't want you to take on more than you should."

"But I could help. I could draw some of it away."

"No Alexander, and don't push it," He held up his hand a clear sign that it wasn't up for discussion. "You've enough to handle with all of us wearing our hearts on our sleeves. Do not add to your burden by trying to siphon off Harry's physical pain as well." His eyes were firm and clear. It was not a request, but an order, and a warning to not make any attempts on his mental walls either.

I nodded, willing to let it go for now. My parents' will was stronger than I could tackle at the moment anyway, my own emotions being as volatile as they were.

Tbc…


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: **Not mine. No money exchanged. No offence or infringement intended. Doing this just for fun.

**A/N: **Hiya folks, here's the next chapter. It looks a bit early but it's not. I'm changing the posting schedule for this story to include Thursdays (yeah I'll update my profile later). Standard warnings. Thank you for the reviews. Please review, it lets me know how I'm doing and what elements could make this story better.

**3.**

Later that night Claire came to my room.

"Alex? You awake?"

I sat up in the bed and flicked my wand, opening my bed curtains and lighting the room's sconces simultaneously.

"I couldn't sleep." My twin padded across the floor and sat at the foot of my bed drawing her knees up to her chest. "I'm still angry, but I'm more hurt than anything…and scared. Merlin, Alex I am so scared," she whispered her eyes wide and teary.

I said nothing, letting her talk—this is how it is for us. Claire talks, I listen. For upwards of an hour she railed against dark lords and curses that worm their way through you ever so slowly, laying in wait—undetectable until they attack your magical core and immune system convincing your body that it's its own enemy. She cursed Voldemort in every language we knew, and prophecies and the Headmaster and finally, tears shed and voice hoarse, she asked me what I'd been dreading.

"You knew didn't you?"

I sighed. Yes, I felt guilty but I still didn't want Claire to be mad at me. Call it healthy Slytherin self-interested self-preservation, but there it is. I sometimes wonder if Siri had lived if he would've been in Slytherin with me or in Gryffindor with Claire, or in a third House, though I honestly can't imagine any child of my father's being a Hufflepuff.

Claire cleared her throat and looked at me expectantly.

"Yes and no," I admitted, suddenly finding the pattern of my sheets rather intriguing. "I knew something was wrong when I couldn't access the link these last few months and I felt pain and sickness at King's Cross, but I didn't _know_ exactly. I guess…I suspected something…"

Claire pursed her lips, "Why didn't you tell me?"

I shrugged, "I wasn't sure and I knew they'd tell us soon enough. It's not the first time they've shut down the link and…and I didn't want to worry you."

Claire smirked, "If I could do what you do I'd have told you."

"Maybe." I conceded.

Claire hugged her knees. "There are still too many secrets in this house," her eyes were fierce and tired.

"Hmm…maybe. But Claire there are other things in this house too—safety and love and—"

"But for how long Alex," she hissed, ruthlessly cutting me off. "How long before this place loses all joy and happiness? How long before everything we love about our home becomes hollow and meaningless? He's the heart of us you know," she added desperately.

I nodded sadly as I thought about that. It's true. Dad is the heart of our family. He softens Father's sharp edges. With his gifts of joy and excitement, he was the first to bring light and laughter into an otherwise tomb-like Manor. I didn't want to think about what would happen when he was gone. So I forced those thoughts away and took solace in what he'd taught us. "Those you love are never really gone. He'll always be with us Claire and we'll always be family."

I looked at my sister then--messy black bangs and Grandmum Lily's piercing green eyes--and smiled, "I'll always see him in your face. And hear him in your laughter." I could feel the tears coming again and decided to let them fall. "He'll always love us and he'll always be with us."

"I'll live as you live. Echoes of me are in every beat of your hearts." The deep and steady voice startled us. As much as we'd trained with our parents and teachers we should've heard him coming, but caught up our own heads, he'd managed to surprise us.

"Daddy you should be in bed!" Claire yelped. She launched off my bed and went to cover him with the throw she'd wrapped around her shoulders.

Dad coughed and held up his hand as he perched on the edge of the bed. "Voldemort wrote the cheque Claire. An ickle bitty cold isn't going to cash it." He smiled faintly as he settled against the sturdy headboard, "So...who's up for a little Exploding Snap?"

Claire looked at him with wide-eyed disbelief. "Are you just going to sit there and act like things are normal? Things are NOT normal!"

Dad smirked and jerked his thumb at his daughter. "That's our Claire," he said to me, "always kicking up a fuss." He patted my cheek at my small smile and turned back to my fuming sister. "Honey, I'm not trying to make light honest, but I want your memories of this time to be more than just a vigil at my bedside. I'm dying, I'm not dead yet. I want to spend the time we have enjoying each other, not just sitting around like Moaning Myrtles bewailing our fate. We needn't wait for the other shoe to drop, it'll happen soon enough. Alright?"

Claire sniffed and nodded. I leaned away from Dad and dug around in my bedside drawer for the cards. He had a point, besides this was tradition. Our first night home on holiday we'd have an Exploding Snap marathon. We'd play 'til dawn and the winner would have a lie in and the losers would make them breakfast in bed. Typically, Claire had late breakfasts the morning after.

With a wave of her wand, Claire stoked the fire and we settled in for the long haul. We laughed and chatted and played and got incredibly sooty and for a few hours it felt normal—for a few hours we could forget. An hour or so before dawn Dad started coughing and gasping for breath. Before either of us could make a move Father was there in his dressing gown to take him back to bed. Once they'd gone we admitted we were afraid and neither of us budged an inch from where we sat.

Father returned a few minutes later with a pinched expression on his face, "He's alright. Said he'd see you in the kitchen Alexander, and told Claire to enjoy her lie in." He fixed us both with a no-nonsense glare, "Now I say, both of you get to bed. It's been a long day for us all." He kissed us both, stroking our hair and our faces. It had always been his way. As he straightened himself the shadow of a smile played on his lips, "What you all see in these little marathons I will never know." He shook his head and slipped out, our chuckles at his back.

Tbc…


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer: **Not mine. No money exchanged. No offence or infringement intended. Doing this just for fun.

**A/N: **Those who are reading I hope you're enjoying. Review and let me know what you think. Standard warnings...and Thanks to those who've reviewed already. Again, for dairygirl.

**4.**

The next month passed quickly, but well. Dad recovered from his cold, much to the relief of everyone. We spent most of our time together…out in the gardens, on daytrips to Muggle London, we visited with Granddad James, Grandmum Lily, Uncles Sirius, Remus and Severus, and had an afternoon with Little Siri too. Aunt Hermione came every day for Dad's check-ups and the rest of the aunts and uncles and Grandmum Molly were frequent visitors as well. Our days were bright and beautiful, filled to brimming with love and laughter. Yet at the back of everything was a rushed feeling—like we were packing our days with memories, because we only had so much time…and well, I guess we were.

The month after saw the beginning of Dad's decline. Day by day he grew weaker, finally having to rely on a floating chair. I know he hated that. The time we could spend out grew shorter as he worked harder and harder to fill his lungs—and still he sheltered me. What I know must've been incredible pain registered to me only as a dull ache.

We were all very nervous when we hit the three month mark. And it was only days in before Dad collapsed at the breakfast table. Dishes flew everywhere and tea splattered as we each rushed to reach him. In the blink of an eye, Father pulled him into his arms and flooed to St. Mungo's where he stayed for a week. I knew then that the end was coming and as Claire had said, I was afraid, well and truly afraid.

Losing Dad was going to be the most painful thing I'd ever experienced. No one I'd loved had ever died before, not like this when I was old enough to really understand loss and have death effect me in a way that would tangibly change my day to day living. After all, Grandpa Arthur, Uncle Sirius, Granddad James and Grandmum Lily…I loved them but they'd all died long before I was born. Little Siri—I loved him too; he came into the world with Claire and I and left it before we were three days old. Deep within me I'm sure I have memories of those days and of my time with him as we lay nestled beneath Dad's heart, but they are not ones I can access with my conscious mind. His absence is a silent ache I have long grown used to. I cannot bear to think of losing Dad. It hurts more than any pain I've ever imagined. To lose them both though…I could not-would not-accept it. It was unfathomable. But before he'd shuttered them, I'd clearly seen Father's eyes when Claire and I arrived at Dad's hospital bedside. There was a fatal sadness there, and in that moment I knew that he was planning.

It took four days from his return home after that horrible week in hospital for me to speak to Dad alone. They were four _very_ long days. I finally had a chance to sneak in while Father bustled Claire off to attend to some business at Gringotts. I had a very ill feeling it had something to do with inheritances, which lent speed to my steps as I crossed the threshold of my parents' bedroom. Odd how their bed seemed so vast with just Dad propped up in it.

"Dad?"

He immediately opened his eyes and grinned wickedly, "You caught me out Alex. Don't tell your Father I wasn't sleeping."

I smirked, "I won't tell." He patted my hand in gratitude and all my mirth fled. "I-I needed to-um-talk to you about something." I hesitated trying to make the words come, but they seemed stuck in my throat.

Dad cocked his head, looked at me intently for a few moments and nodded. He raised his hand, tucked a loose lock behind my ear and sighed as his fingers traced down my jaw to land gently on my lips. "I already know" he said. "I've got it covered."

I shook my head and spoke around his fingers, "No Dad, you don't understand. I-I'm trying to tell you…Father-he—"

Dad pressed against my mouth more firmly, "Shh. It's covered." His hand shifted to my cheek. "Merlin, you look just like him. Spitting image at this age."

Tears started to burn as I realised Dad wasn't exactly with me anymore, but I had to get this out I needed his help. "Dad," I said softly, needing to get through to him, "Father is-he's—".

"Alex," he heaved an exasperated sigh. "Gods and goddesses have you always been so stubborn? I've told you. It's all been taken care of; now stop worrying yourself about your Father. He's not going anywhere."

I blinked. He _did_ have it covered. I'm not sure how he knew—I am the family's only empathic telepath after all, but he did know, thinking on it later I figured I must've inherited my abilities from somewhere, why not Dad? Apparently my surprise was rather obvious because Dad chuckled and shook his head at me.

"Alex I have loved your father for twenty-two years. Do you honestly think I wouldn't have known? That I wouldn't see it?" He cocked an eyebrow at me and I blushed. "He'll…survive. He'll need you both, more than ever. But he'll live." A dark and determined look crossed his face. "He'd better." He added softly and pinned me with a look. In that moment I was caught in the brilliance of emerald fire. Even dulled with pain, Dad's eyes are incredibly beautiful and mesmerising. "You know I am shielding you—I can't for too much longer and once you feel it all, he'll know how bad it's been and it'll damn near kill him. I'm trying to give him time," he whispered, "time to figure out how to grieve and go on living. But he's not ready yet Alex. He's not nearly ready."

His control slipped and a hard tremor coursed through him, causing a major twinge in me as well. "But you are ready—bloody hell Dad how long?"

He turned his head away. "I have never lied to you," he began, his voice thin, "I won't ever—but that's a hard thing to answer. Too long, not long enough, it's the same either way." He pressed his lips together as another wave of pain washed over him and closed his eyes.

I raised his hands to my lips and kissed them. "Dad let me help. Please!"

Opening his eyes, he shook his head, "There's nothing for it my sweet boy. Save your strength." He closed his eyes again and a tear slipped from beneath his lashes. "Go on now love. I'm havin' a kip."

I kissed his hands again, stood and headed for the door. His soft voice stopped and caressed me as I laid my hand on the handle.

"Alex—he-he's not good at…it's hard for him to say…but he loves you. So do I."

"I know Dad," I said not turning to face him.

"Remind him of that."

I pulled the door open and stepped into the hallway, letting it fall closed behind me. Breathing hard I shut my eyes and worked frantically to keep the tears at bay. I could not break now. I would never be able to put myself back together again if I did.

Luck, it seems, was not with me, for just when I thought I'd gained control everything went to pieces. I opened my eyes to find Father standing there in front of me, concern weighting his eyes.

"Alexander?" his rich voice wrapped around me and before I knew what I was doing I'd thrown my arms around his neck.

"Don't leave us. Please, don't leave us too! If you love us you'll stay! You'll stay with us!" I sobbed so hard my frame shook and all my attempts at suppression, all my control, shook loose with it.

Suddenly it was all too much and I was falling, caught up in a maelstrom of swirling frenzied emotion. Overwhelming hurt, anger, pain, loss, and fear—oh sweet Merlin the fear! It all knocked against the walls within me and rebounded and rebounded and rebounded and I was drowning. The weight of it all was crushing me and I couldn't breathe. Some tiny bit of me knew it was empathic overload and screamed that I needed to retreat behind the walls of my magic, retreat to that place of solace and refuge—my still-point. But that voice was lost in the cacophony of chaos. It was happening too fast, it was too late to scrabble for control, I couldn't stop it, dead at 17—I was going to burn out… And then as happened those times I was stricken as a child, a voice rang out, cutting through the madness. That voice—a strong anchor to sanity.

_Alexander hear me. Hear me and heed my voice. Find the still-point Alex. Lead me, it _is _here. You are _not _lost. I am here and _I will not leave you_. Lead us to safety._

And I could not help but obey. That voice was strength and warmth and home. It was the promise that I was never alone. Father was here and everything would be fine. And we made our way, and as suddenly as it began it was over and my mind was still.

Tbc…


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer: **Not mine. No money exchanged. No offence or infringement intended. Doing this just for fun.

**A/N: **I re-read Ch. 4 after it was posted and decided it was waaay too short (though it didn't seem that way when I was writing) and that I'd left the story at a really unsatisfying point. So I am posting again today, here's Ch.5 for you all--I hope you're still enjoying the story.

Standard warnings, and please note I do not speak, nor have I studied Gaelic. I am certainly not an expert on its forms. If I've made an error please feel free to correct me. Thank you to those who've reviewed! And note--even if you're reading this long after I've posted it, I still want to here from you so review anyway!

**5.**

When I was finally able to open my eyes I found Father there wiping a cool flannel across my brow. "Father," I said blinking furiously to clear my eyes and weakly trying to sit up.

His hand was against my chest keeping me down gently. "Just rest. You're going to lie there and rest awhile Alexander." He shook his head, "Merlin, you scared me!"

"I scared you?"

He smirked, "Yes you scared me." His face softened, and he brushed his fingers across my cheek, "Alexander," he said softly, "you haven't overloaded since you were twelve years old. And I have _never_ seen it as bad as that. I was very worried."

I could see he was still shaken so I just nodded. He leaned down and kissed my temple. It reassured us both. "I'm sorry Father. I'm alright now though. I just-I've been a bit troubled lately and-things with Dad…I-"

He looked up over my head but kept stroking my hair, it was something he'd done to soothe me since I was very small. "I've given my word Alexander," came the near whisper, "You needn't worry."

After a while he looked down at me, chuckled a little and the corner of his mouth turned up, "Sometimes I wonder whether we should've named you Severus after all. You worry about me nearly as much as he did I think."

I squeezed his hand. It was an old discussion, I was born first so I received a name unique to myself and was not named for anyone, though Dad really wanted both of his sons to carry their Grand-Godfathers' names. He was appeased only when I was given Uncle Severus' name for my middle name and Father acquiesced so Little Siri was named for Uncle Sirius.

I sighed then thinking of my brother, "Do you wonder what he would've been like Father?"

His eyes filled with sadness and regret as he answered, "Often…every day. I mourn not being able to know him as I do you and Claire. Not being able to love him as he grew from child to adult…to be proud of him as he came into his own as I am proud of the two of you…I wonder every day, Alexander and I miss him."

He closed his eyes a moment then swooped down and kissed me again. "I promised to live for the living," he said gently, his lips against my brow, "now rest love, you're worn out."

He righted himself slowly and caressed my face once more before he stood and swept from the room. As my door closed behind him I wondered if I'd ever really understand the depths of my Father.

I slept the rest of the afternoon, then Claire and I went for supper at The Leaky Cauldron to give our parents some time alone. We talked about nothing for a while then she asked me about the overload.

"So what happened today Alex?"

I shrugged, "I think it all just caught up to me and I was just overwhelmed by everything."

Arching her brow, Claire snorted. Her expression said she wasn't buying the casual explanation.

"It wasn't so bad," I said, still trying for understatement. I really hated when she worried, "Father saved me."

The incredulous expression didn't change. "I know. He hollered for me to stay with Daddy scooped you up into his arms and carried you up to your rooms."

"Scooped me up?" There are many things I couldn't picture Father doing. Hollering is one. Scooping someone up is another.

Claire just nodded, "I know seems odd, but he did. Didn't bother with a feather-light charm or levitation either, he just gathered you up into his arms and took off. He's much stronger than one would think."

She looked off into the middle distance and smiled, "I remember once when we were little Daddy dared him to move this huge trunk of old books across the library without magic." She giggled and rolled her eyes, "He teased him something awful! Father muttered that being mistaken for a common labourer was a lifelong goal, smirked at him, hefted the trunk and walked away." She shook her head, "I tried pushing the trunk a little later but it was full of books and ridiculously heavy. Later I told Father he was strong as an ox."

I smiled, "just as stubborn too." We laughed a long while at that.

"Claire," I said after we'd sobered. "I've been thinking…"

"Mmmhmm…" She looked up from her butterbeer, "me too…

I think we should stay here after—" we chorused and smiled. Rarely did we say something at once or finish each other's sentences, we are very different people after all, no matter we were born at the same time.

"I'm glad you've been thinking about it," she said. "I don't want Father to be here alone."

"He'll be resistant to the idea. He won't like that we're putting off our studies."

Claire and I had both planned on moving to Rome to continue our schooling. She was to apprentice a Master Illustrator. He accepted two new students every ten years; that Claire had been chosen was quite the honour, though with trademark Malfoy arrogance she'd never really considered that she had competition.

I, on the other hand, was set to enrol at the university. I planned on continuing my Potions study. Though Claire was the one who'd inherited Father's natural, nearly intuitive, talent in Potions making, I was the one who shared his love of the subject. Though I had to work harder at it than my sister, I enjoyed it immensely and had every intention of becoming a Potions Master.

"I've already owled Gianni actually," she said. "I can begin with him any time I'm ready. He was very understanding."

I nodded. I'd also owled the university and deferred my acceptance. We talked it over and decided finally that we'd remain at home for at least six months _after_, though we never actually said the words aloud.

At supper a week after my overload and the talk with Claire Dad set aside his napkin and smiling, announced we were going on a trip and told us to pack for a seaside holiday. Father choked on his pumpkin juice and sputtered. Claire and I just exchanged looks. He had been looking a little better the last two or three days, but still—.

Dad pushed his plate away. His eyes grew dark and his smile faded, "I'm serious," he said. "I will not die in this house. I want to go to the cottage."

"Are you sure?" Father desperately tried to school his features against the anguish that threatened to consume him, but was betrayed by his countenance despite the confidence of his voice.

With shaking hands Dad lifted Father's and kissed his palms. "Draco…it's time."

No one beyond the two of them existed in that moment. Father nodded, and despite my pain I watched in awe of their silent communion. 'They are one soul,' I thought, 'one soul in two bodies.' And for the first time in my life I saw tears fall from my father's silver eyes.

The next day we went to the cottage, which, being a Malfoy property isn't really a cottage, but a rather large and expansive beach house. It was as though Dad had given himself permission to stop fighting so hard once we'd arrived, as he grew weaker at an alarming pace. He spent most of his time alone with one of the three of us, alternating turns. He allowed brief visits with the rest of the family, and one by one they trailed in to spend an hour here and there. Every minute he was saying goodbye.

And still he sheltered me.

Claire was handling things quite poorly. After the third time she'd nearly shaken the house down, Father suggested she go for long walks when she was feeling "agitated." She took off after that suggestion and for an hour we watched as sand whirled down the beach in vicious cyclones. But she did as he asked and after her time with Dad she'd storm out of the cottage in a sorrowful rage, screaming and crying as she tore off down the beach. When she returned she was sullen and moody and if he'd allowed himself, Father probably would've acted the same way. He was instead, glacial in his reserve.

Claire and I are definitely our parents' children. She looks like Dad and shares his sense of humour and adventure. But like Father she is often reluctant to share the depths of her feelings. I look like Father and in some ways I am often more aloof and reserved, but like Dad, typically I wear my heart on my emotional sleeve. We are a good mix, the four of us and I wondered what would happen to our balance when our number decreased.

I didn't have long to wait for an answer to my question—two weeks from our arrival at the cottage Dad asked me to spend the evening with him which was odd since usually evenings were spent with Father.

We talked about my future and shared stories of our pasts. It never ceased to amaze me that Dad and I could talk about so many things without restraint. But then, he had a way of putting you at ease—it was another of his many gifts and I loved the times he shared it with me. It was getting late though and I was readying myself to leave, as it looked to me that Dad was getting too tired and needed to rest, when his hand gripped mine tightly.

"Alex I can't hold it back any more," he said sadly.

"It's alright Dad, I can handle it." I looked at him squarely and swallowed, I needed to know; he understood without my saying a word.

"Tomorrow loachan," he whispered, as tears filled his eyes.

He hadn't used that petname with me in years—loachan and laisgeanta he called us, catching us up in his arms and smothering us with hugs and kisses. After tomorrow I'd never hear it from his lips again and I cried for my loss, laying my head on his chest.

Tbc…

**A/N 2: Gaelic translations (in alphabetical order): **

Laisgeanta--fiery, fierce dimunitive for a girl/woman.

Loachan--little hero, a familiar term in applauding a boy.

Review please, I'd love to hear from you!


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer: **Not mine. No money exchanged. No offence or infringement intended. Doing this just for fun. I make no claims on Harry Potter, which belongs to JK Rowling, et al. Nor do I make claims on the labours of Loreena McKennitt, Alfred Lord Tennyson, or Sir Thomas Malory whose works belong solely to themselves, their estates, and their designated representatives.

**A/N: **So you're aware—this is HD Slash with character death—consider this the tissue warning. More extensive notes at the end of the chapter. Thanks for reading!

**6.**

"Alex wake up."

It was Claire, wrapped up in the shawl Grandmum Molly made her last Christmas. The sun had set and Dad was asleep, fingers still tangled in my hair. Claire fussed, moving his hand away, "C'mon you've been in here for hours. Let Daddy get some sleep."

"Claire," I rasped. "He's—"

"I know Alex. We had a long chat this morning." She said sadly as she pulled me gently from the chair and helped me from the room.

"Where's Father?"

"Out on the deck. We've been talking."

"How is he?" I was almost afraid to ask.

Claire led me to my room and sat on the bed. She sighed, flipping her long braid back over her shoulder, "His heart is breaking Alex—it hurts so much to see. He-he knows—Daddy didn't have to tell him. Th-they're so close you know? I think he's felt it coming for a few days."

I nodded.

Claire cocked her head looking up at me, "Do you remember the bloke I dated fifth year? The one I met at The Harpies concert?"

I was confused by the change of subject, but welcomed it nonetheless, "Er-yeah… he was from Amsterdam…Jens or something."

Claire threw me a dirty look and continued, "Yes Jens. It's not like I've dated that many guys Alex, really!"

I smirked. She knew I was having her on. Claire was chased by many but only allowed herself to be caught by a privileged few.

She stuck her tongue out at me then grew quite serious, "Did you know he asked me to marry him summer before sixth year?" She smiled wanly at my apparent surprise. "I guess you didn't. It's not like he wanted to get married right away. He just wanted us to be engaged. He said we could wait until after graduation to make any definite plans, but he wanted everyone to know that he loved me and would be with me forever."

"You never said anything. I had no idea it was that serious."

Claire shrugged. "I told Father later. He took it rather well actually. We had a nice long talk; he only threatened to lock me in my room if I started dating again before I was 30." Claire chuckled, "And he promised not to hex him and to keep Dad from ripping Jens' bollocks off and feeding them to Fang, the second."

I smiled, it sounded like something Dad would do, though Claire must've made major concessions for Father not to hunt him down and hex him 'til doomsday.

"I take it you said no."

She nodded, "I had to turn him down. I-I _cared _for him…a lot, but…I didn't love him. I didn't…_burn _for him like Father and Daddy do. They share one soul Alex. I want that someday. I want someone who breathes for me. Father and Daddy…they love each other so much…it's hard to see sometimes—it's like something so beautiful that you have to turn your head away it's so bright."

"Hmmm…like a well so deep it'd take a thousand lifetimes to reach the bottom," I added.

She nodded, her eyes shining in the dim light. "I'm afraid for him Alex," she whispered. "I don't want him to waste away to a shell of man just waiting for his chance to die."

I tugged her over until she was leaning against me. "I don't know how it's gonna be Claire. But I have to believe he'll make it through. I'm not going to give up on him."

"Me neither. I just worry you know?"

"I know."

We sat in silence for a long time. I thought about Father and Dad and Claire and me. Somehow, I had to believe, that we'd all make it though.

The next day a pall hung in the air. Aunt Hermione and Uncle Ron came early in the morning, arriving before all the other aunts and uncles. Dad greeted them but was so weak and in so much pain he couldn't really sit up so Father and Uncle Ron propped him on an incline with lots of pillows which seemed to help his breathing. Father stayed beside him on the bed the whole of the day and none of us left the room. As our family gathered we talked to each other quietly or cried or sat in silence. There were no loud or prolonged goodbyes; it had all been said already.

Dad drifted in and out of consciousness until very late in the afternoon. Through the French doors that led to their private balcony we could see the sun beginning its descent over the ocean.

Dad's eyes opened hazily as the setting sun cast a glow over us all.

"Draco?"

Father reached over and cradled Dad in his arms ever so gently. "I'm here Harry," he said softly.

Dad leaned into him heavily. "It's too quiet in here—feels like we're all tiptoeing around a dying man." He smiled faintly as only he would at such a moment and weakly poked Father in the ribs. "Tell us a story love. Recite one of those epic things you liked to tell Claire and Alex when they were little."

Father shook his head violently, his eyes shining with tears, "Harry…I-I can't."

Dad squeezed their clasped hands on his stomach. "Of course you can Dragon. I know...tell the one about the fisherman and the fairy…the one that starts 'On either side of the river lie, Long fields of barley and of rye, That clothe the world and meet the sky; And thro' the field the road run by…'"

Voice ragged and pained as though he'd swallowed ground glass, Father continued, "And up and down the people go, Gazing where the lilies blow, Round an island there below…Willows whiten, aspens quiver, Little breezes dusk and shiver Thro' the wave that runs for ever, By the island in the river…"

The poem was special to sister, my parents and me and we each knew it well. It was one of Dad's favourites, and ours too—the bitterly sweet and beautiful story of the enchanted island in the river where lived a lonely fisherman who fell in love with nymph. They'd lived happily for many a year until the nymph was called back to her people who were leaving for the Summerlands over the sea. The fisherman was left with their small daughters as his wife returned to the Fae and sailed with them into the mists.

When were young , if he could be coaxed into speaking rather than just holding us before bed, Father would recite a stanza or two of the ballad each night, as it was quite a long poem. It's one of those oral epics that's become something to study in a classroom instead of something shared aloud in the twilight before a roaring fire.

As he reached the verse where the fisherman calls to the fairie, his voice faltered, "Wait! Tho' calls the beauty of the sea, My heart, my soul's sun,I do beseech thee, do not leave me lost without the warmth of your love—"

Dad picked up, his eyes closed and voice fading, with words we'd never heard before, "His love answered—no matter where you are I will love you for you are the heart of my heart, my light in the darkness, the breath of my soul." Dad coughed a little, his voice growing still weaker, but with fierce determination he continued on, this time with the familiar lines, "You are simply my best time, my sweetest laughter. You are my most peaceful sleep and still you find new ways to love me…always…" he could not complete the line, his breath coming more and more slowly.

Claire's strong voice pierced the hush then. It could not be left unfinished. We _needed _the precious words spoken and neither of our parents could do so now. "Always," she said steadily, though I could hear the echoes of her tears, "you will have my hand to hold…"

"Always, and ever." I said ending the words of the inscription Dad had carved into a sculpture of his and Father's hands on their wedding day, knowing as I did so that he had gone.

Our extended family left quickly at Claire's urging, Uncle Ron led a quietly sobbing Aunt Hermione from the room last. My sister came and stood at my elbow then guided me away too. I understood. Father had shared Dad's last living moments with those of us they loved, but for his final goodbye he needed to be alone.

As we left I turned to look back at him…in seconds he had aged far beyond his years. He held Dad close, whispering to him. What was it Claire had said? So beautiful you have to turn your head? She was right.

Tbc…

**A/N 2: **Okay this gets a little complicated…but here goes my best effort...the epic poem/ballad Draco recites is actually a bit of lyric I nipped from Loreena McKennitt's "The Lady of Shalott," which by the way is a beautiful song. McKennitt's song is inspired by (or a very loose adaptation of) the poem "'The Lady of Shalott" by Alfred Lord Tennyson, which is thought to be loosely based on Elaine, the maiden who was in love with Sir Lancelot, from Sir Thomas Malory's epic of Arthurian legend, Morte D'Arthur.

The context in which I use the lyrics is by _**no means the original intent**_--obviously the fisherman and the fairy have no place in poems and songs about Camelot (grin), but being as I had no idea how to write something that would sound like an epic balladI borrowed from an actual one. And in case you go looking for either of those works, lemme say that I wrote the part of the "ballad" where Draco stumbles. "Wait! Tho' calls the beauty of the sea, My heart, my soul's sun,I do beseech thee, do not leave me lost without the warmth of your love—" is not a line from the works of either Tennyson or McKennitt.

And while I'm giving credit where credit is due for lines in this story that aren't mine…the inscription on the hands sculpture is a quote I saw on a very beautiful sculpture of hands entwined a few years back. The whole thing is as follows: You are simply my best time, my sweetest laughter. You are my most peaceful sleep and still you find new ways to love me. Always you will have my hand to hold. Always, and ever. Anon

Review please, I'd love to hear from you!


	7. Chapter 7

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Harry Potter or any related characters and situations. They belong to J. K. Rowling, Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Inc., Warner Bros, and anyone else with copyright. Any original characters which may appear and the plot of this story for which no money has been exchanged and which was written for entertainment purposes only, are mine mine mine!

**A/N: **We've reached the end! I have to say, as sad as this story made me I actually really enjoyed writing it. Maybe because I was playing with looking at the H/D relationship from a different perspective…who knows…anyway…let me know what you thought...even if it's long after I've posted. Review please!

**7.**

We stayed at the cottage until the funeral. Dad made his final wishes very clear, and though it was against the Wizarding traditions that called for body burial, no one gainsayed them. He'd asked to be cremated, though some of his ashes were to rest at Godric's Hollow beside his parents and son. We were to release him to the breeze, as he'd never felt more freedom than when he was in the air. He was a flyer, he said, and could imagine no more fitting end than to be cast out to ride the winds.

The funeral was a private affair, attended by only our closest family and friends, though we had a devil of a time keeping the press and the curious away. Father let a barrage of powerful curses and hexes loose on the blighters, who finally left us in peace.

The memorial was a public event, even broadcasted on the WWN, and attended by thousands of people who wished to pay their last respects to The-Boy-Who-Lived and eventually, ultimately paid the highest price for their freedom. It was a spectacle and a farce arranged by the Ministry who used Dad's death as an opportunity to elevate public opinion of the current Minister. Long stuffy eulogies were given by officials we did not know, lauding Dad's achievements as the 'Saviour of the Wizarding world' and holding him up as the quintessence of courage and bravery. Dad would've hated it, but for the sake of appearances we endured. Father especially, tried to accept gushing condolences gracefully, but when Lunestra Warbler approached the podium for her musical tribute it was obvious that he'd reached the end of his patience. He sneered at the shocked vocalist (Dad once said her voice sounded like a cross between nails on a chalkboard and a banshee on a sugar high) and with a resounding **CRACK** apparated to the Manor where he holed himself up in Dad's studio.

Claire and I dealt with the mourners, with sympathy cards and donations. We made arrangements so the numerous floral tributes would be delivered to the ailing at St. Mungo's, and the lonely at various senior living facilities. We hired guards for the cemetery at Godric's Hollow to force vigil-keepers and memento-hunters away, and grudgingly we made the occasional statement to the press. We didn't need any more headlines like the one run by The Daily Prophet the morning after the memorial: "HERO'S HUSBAND COLLAPSES IN GRIEF," they'd misreported Father's departure from the service for the sake of circulation, as usual. For three weeks we went about the business of living through public mourning and held back our private grief. We had our family to help us, but the one person we needed most was still secluded in Dad's art studio.

Besides the gardens, the studio was Dad's favourite place at the Manor. Aunt Hermione said it started as a joke…sort of. She'd wanted Dad to undergo extensive therapy after the war to come to terms with his experiences and losses. Father asked if she was going to encourage him to 'paint pretty pictures and start basket-weaving' next. Dad picked up on the painting, though clay was his preferred medium. I'm pretty sure he left the basket-weaving alone.

Despite Claire's interest and talent, the studio was really just Dad's space. It was where he made his emotions tangible—both good and bad. Where he captured his best memories on canvas or in clay. Where he worked out his daemons, and where he went when even Father's arms couldn't keep the nightmares away. We were welcome there sometimes. He'd call us in and from the vantage point of a lumpy old futon, we'd examine his latest painting or sculpture, sipping tea or hot chocolate from mugs he'd made himself.

After three weeks Claire had had enough. Ridiculously early one morning, she burst into my bedroom then stormed to the studio, dragging me behind her. When we'd arrived she tested the knob, then beat on the door. When there was no answer she whipped out her wand and put enough power into her "Alohomora," to knock the door from its hinges.

I'm not sure what I expected with that little outburst, but Father didn't react at all, and that brought us up short. He was sitting on the old futon, caressing the hands sculpture Dad had made as his gift for their wedding day, staring out unseeing. His pale face was frightfully gaunt and I made a mental note to ask the house elves if he'd eaten at all these last few weeks.

"Father." Claire said softly, approaching him slowly. She took the sculpture from his clenched hands and sat on the floor beside him.

"Father, can you hear me?"

I went to his other side and took his ice-cold hand in mine, "Father we need you. We need…to grieve and we can't do that if you won't."

Claire nodded, "We need to do this together Father."

"You promised," I said, lightly chaffing his hand. "You promised to live for the living. We need you here."

After long moments he shook his head gently, clearing his mind and his eyes, as recognition slowly crept back in. "I-I can't," he whispered brokenly.

"Bloody hell you can't! More like you won't!" Claire was working herself up to a rage. I understood—anger was better than soul stifling sadness. "What about us huh? We loved him too Father! We-we lost him too." She cried anguished and pulled her hands away from his to cover her face, but they couldn't catch all her tears.

"He-he's gone. He's gone and we-we're falling apart!"

Father slipped down onto the floor and held her as she cried into his shoulder.

"Shh…shh, my girl…it's alright Claire. It'll be okay." Father rocked her tenderly, his instincts to protect and comfort us overriding his own grief for a moment. And then, his own tears, held back for so long broke free and soon sobs wracked his lithe frame. In a flash I was on the floor as well, and together we began to truly mourn our loss.

When the storm calmed, Father swept the moon-coloured stands that clung to my face away. "We need to feel more than pain and sadness," he said, his eyes so full of both I had to look away. "He wouldn't want that." Father took a deep breath, "Help me think of something good. Tell me something you remember."

My eyes still itched with tears, but I held them as I answered. "Hands," I said hoarsely, "so strong… swinging me into the air and catching me…holding me steady on my first broom…" I closed my eyes and remembered the feeling of cutting through the air with Dad's hands on my waist.

"Laughter," Claire said softly, "in his eyes, in the air, everywhere."

"Eyes so green, they put the finest emeralds to shame…fresh like Spring…and so clear--so clear you could see his soul through them," Father added, rasping.

'One shared soul,' I thought.

"Did you see yourself there?" I asked.

"And you," he answered with a nod, looking at us both and smiling a little for the first time in weeks.

He reached around his neck and unclasped the locket. I'd never known him to be without it, so it was odd seeing his neck bare. The golden locket with its etched border of lilies and roses was so feminine looking that I'd always thought it a strange anomaly in my father's well-tailored, masculine appearance.

He held it in his palm so we could see more clearly.

"Harry gave this to me on our first wedding anniversary," he said. "He took the snap your Uncle Sirius gave him of your grandparents' wedding to a jeweller and had it made up from the picture."

As he spoke I brought to mind the muggle-style portrait that hung downstairs and remembered the glinting oval locket that hung from Grandmum Lily's neck. I'd seen the photograph too; it was one of Dad's most cherished belongings, the tattered snap of Granddad James and Grandmum Lily, murdered when Dad was just a baby.

Father opened the locket and inside they were smiling, laughing and kissing each other in miniatures of their wedding portrait, another was of me and Claire 3rd or 4th year smiling and horsing around, the last was of drowsy, cooing babies—the two of us and Little Siri shortly after our birth. Tucked in the back of the locket where snips of our hair. It was truly a beautiful token, and I realised that Father was sharing what he saw in Dad's eyes when Draco looked straight through to Harry's soul.

Lost in my own musings, I didn't notice the inscription in the front cover, but Claire did.

"_You are the heart of my heart, my light in the darkness, the breath of my soul_," she read aloud and gasped in recognition of Dad's last words. "What does this mean Father and why does it say 'Yes' underneath?"

Father closed his eyes then smiled beautifully. Peace and joy stole over his features as for a moment he relived some special private memory. "It says 'Yes' because that is what he answered," he said finally, simply.

Claire flashed a smile, and catching Dad there, I grinned in response. "It's what you said when you proposed."

Dad nodded gently and closed up the locket. After he'd set it around his neck he touched our faces, as if seeing us for the first time in a long while and not quite believing we were real.

"I've made a promise for my living," he said as he stood up and a last tear fell.

He put his arms over our shoulders and kissed us, swiveling his head from side to side, as we made our way downstairs for a long overdue breakfast.

I didn't know what the future held for us, but we would face it together. It would never be easy, but I knew now that all of us _would_ be alright. My Father, after all, is a man of his word.

End.


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